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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878069">When Angels Meet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaStevenTaylor/pseuds/RebeccaStevenTaylor'>RebeccaStevenTaylor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett, Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crossover, M/M, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,313</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878069</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebeccaStevenTaylor/pseuds/RebeccaStevenTaylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every once a while, Castiel and Aziraphale, angels who have learned to love who they shouldn't, and far too much, take a step out of their time and reality to talk</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>160</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>When Angels Meet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>There's not much plot here, just a conversation. I just thought - what would Castiel and Aziraphale talk about?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They always meet somewhere different. It’s never at a set time. The call goes out – sometimes years have passed, sometimes barely days. Once just an hour (although time runs a little different for both of them).</p><p>
  <em>Can we meet?</em>
</p><p>And the answer is always yes.</p><p>They have met in roadside diners in Montana, and roadside cafés in Yorkshire. They have met in tourist bars in the shadow of Everest, and the café across the road to the Eiffel Tower. Discreet coffee bars in Morocco and calm tea bars in Delhi. Anywhere and everywhere – as long as it’s quiet. As long as no-one will see them.</p><p>Aziraphale arrives first. He always does. He knows he has a slightly obsessive tendency to insist on being on time, and therefore is early everywhere. It annoys Crowley no end, even as Crowley accommodates it (Crowley doesn’t come to these meetings. He doesn’t know about them). Aziraphale sits quietly, his chosen drink and meal in front of him – always the local drink, always the local food. He does like to discover new tastes. He always wears the local costume too, even if it is adapted in his shades of cream and beige, with a flash of tartan.</p><p>Castiel always wears the same clothes - his dirty raincoat. He never used to eat and drink, until he started to ask for American beer, and gets it, no matter where he is. Lately he’s started asking for a burger with all the trimmings, and always gets it too. Aziraphale offers him his choice, but Castiel always says no. He likes what he likes, he says.</p><p>This particular meeting in is a truck stop by the road in Austria. It’s snowing outside, has been for days and the room is warm, and dark. It’s been cut off for several hours now – no-one minds, they’re used to the heavy snow, and they have heat and food, and the snow will melt soon but for now, they are alone in the world. Nevertheless, no-one is surprised when the door opens and a man enters. Some how they don’t quite see him. Their eyes glance away when they try to rest on the dark haired man with the intense face.</p><p>They don’t want to see him. Angels might walk amongst us, we might even take comfort from that fact, but we don’t really want to see them.</p><p>He sits down, and his beer is in front of him.</p><p>‘Aziraphale,’ he growls – there’s no other word for it – to the man in cream.</p><p>‘Castiel. I hope you had a pleasant journey?’</p><p>‘I didn’t have a journey. I just wished to come and I was here.’</p><p>‘It’s a pleasantry, Castiel. Merely a way to settle in before we start the conversation.’</p><p>‘Oh. Then yes, my journey was adequate.’</p><p>He’s awkward, is Castiel, but Aziraphale can understand. It must be difficult for an angel who didn’t grow up among humans, so to speak, to be around humans all the time. Look at how Gabriel behaves when he comes down. And Castiel is trying, unlike other angels. He is learning humanity – or a particular kind of very American humanity – somewhere.</p><p>He doesn’t take his coat off. He never does. Aziraphale once cautiously asked him if Castiel would like help getting his coat cleaned.</p><p>‘Why would I?’ Castiel replied.</p><p>‘It’s dirty,’ Aziraphale had replied, in his pristine coat that he has kept that way for over 100 years.</p><p>‘I like it like this,’ Castiel said. ‘I like the dirt.’</p><p>Aziraphale was about to argue – but then he realised. Castiel liked the marks on it. Every smudge was a mark of someone who had touched him, an experience he had gone through. It was his memory box, in a way, much like the items Aziraphale kept on his desk – useless junk Crowley called the collection of scraps of paper and ribbon and dried flowers and feathers, yet every fragment had a memory.</p><p>They talk for a while, about Heaven.  Their Heavens seem to be subtly different and Aziraphale has long worked out that they probably belong in slightly different realities – but there are similarities. The ones that hurt. The coldness. The empty spaces. How the angels do not seem to understand or even like humanity. A name is mentioned – it could be any name – and they compare. My Uriel does this, what about yours? My Gabriel did this, how about yours?</p><p>Their time lines don’t always match – Castiel has met Aziraphale at dates long before he’s ever officially reached Earth. But time is only a nebulous concept to angels anyway. An angel who arrived on Earth only a few years ago meeting Aziraphale in a Scottish inn in 1795 doesn’t really bother either of them.</p><p>They’ve never examined how it can be that two angels from different Heavens can meet up like this. They know why.</p><p>‘How are you?’ Castiel says. It was Aziraphale who called, this time.</p><p>‘Quite well. I believe…’ Aziraphale dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin as ketchup squirted from Castiel’s burger onto his shirt. ‘I believe we may have stopped the Apocalypse. Well, an Apocalypse. Of a sort.’</p><p>Castiel nods. He understands. He’s stopped a few himself, in his time. He may not have been involved in this one, but he may have felt echoes. Down there, in the Bunker, the instruments the Men of Letters (and how Aziraphale longed to meet them!) left behind may have captured a few passing tremors of a non-earthly kind – but Castiel had ignored them. He had looked at the cause, and the location and a few other factors and realised this was Aziraphale’s battle. It’s not his place to help, and even if called, he doubted he could. Some laws cannot be broken, or even bent.</p><p>‘How do you feel?’ Castiel asks. He doesn’t need details. End of the world, yadda, yadda, yadda. That’s not the important part here and now.</p><p>‘Well, we won, so delighted, of course! Over the moon. Overjoyed, in fact. Incandescent with it!’ Aziraphale’s voice is far too frantic, and his hands wave about in the air.</p><p>Castiel nods, and wipes his mouth with his napkin. His is paper, while Aziraphale’s is linen.</p><p>‘I’ve been through a few end-of-the-world type situations myself. It seems to happen a lot, where I am.’</p><p>‘And isn’t it wonderful, when you win? It’s supposed to be, I’m sure.’</p><p>‘No,’ Castiel says. ‘Winning is good but what comes afterwards can be difficult.’</p><p>Aziraphale nods. He looks away, and around the room, and down at his plate. His hands still, and he rests them on the table. Castiel eats his burger in silence and waits. This moment – the one where it’s all over and you have time to think – always takes a while to process. When Aziraphale looks back at Castiel, his voice is low and soft.</p><p>‘Does it always hurt?’</p><p>‘Always,’ Castiel says, as he puts down his burger. ‘No matter if you all survive or not – something is lost. A certainty, perhaps. A sense of safety. You become aware of how fragile the world is. How easily those you love can be hurt. There are always scars.’</p><p>Aziraphale nods. Ah. At least, then, he is not alone in feeling like this.</p><p>‘Heaven put me on trial. They were going to sentence me to death. Imagine that, death for trying to save the world.’</p><p>‘That sounds accurate,’ Castiel says. ‘They are wrong.’</p><p>‘Yes, but for a place I consider home – for people I consider my family…’ his voice breaks, and Castiel reaches out. He doesn’t touch, not quite, but he places his hand on the table between them, to show he is there. He understands. He has done this journey. He knew it would hit Aziraphale one day, just as Aziraphale knew grief over the short lives of humans would hit Castiel one day.</p><p>‘They are not your family. They are not your home. Your home is on Earth and your family – is who you choose it to be.’</p><p>Aziraphale sniffs, once, and nods.</p><p>‘Yes, I suppose you are right.’</p><p>‘It took me time to learn that. I made some mistakes, but that is what I believe, now.’</p><p>Aziraphale nods again and sits up, his back straight now. Yes, it’s true, Castiel has made this journey before, many times. End of the world and choices about where you belong and who matters. Aziraphale has lived such a quiet life in comparison.</p><p>‘I’ve never thought about it before,’ Aziraphale.</p><p>‘Now you can. You must decide who matters to you.’</p><p>‘Oh, I know who matters to me. I’ve known it for a long time. It’s just a matter of realising who else I thought mattered – does not.’</p><p>Aziraphale takes a bite from the strudel in front of him. It is hot and sweet and flaky, and there is no food in Heaven to compare. He feels a little better now. Castiel may have execrable tase in food, but he is comforting.</p><p>‘And how is – him?’ Castiel asks. ‘He is well?’</p><p>He doesn’t need to name names. He rarely does. They both knew who ‘him’ is, for both of them. That is the reason they can meet. That is how they cross boundaries into each other’s realities, and meet in these little out of the way places when called.</p><p>They love, as angels are not supposed to love. Every inch of their body, their human body which should not feel, yearns towards another. Every ounce of their souls, their souls which should belong to God and Heaven alone, loves someone else, with an intense fervour angels should not be capable of. They understand, like no-one else, what it is to be an angel in love.</p><p>‘Oh, he’s well, I think. I hope. A little tired, perhaps. A little strained. Doesn’t quite like to let me out of his sight at the moment. I died, you see. Or – he thought I had.’</p><p>Castiel nods. He understands this too. It’s hard to be the one that dies, but even harder to be the one left behind. And then…</p><p>‘Dean can be like that when I come back. After dying, I mean.’</p><p>‘How many times have you - come back?’</p><p>‘I’m really not sure at the moment. But he – he likes to know where I am and likes me to come when he prays. He gets quite lost if he can’t find me, Sam says, but Dean doesn’t like to admit that. But I make sure Sam always knows how to get hold of me so when Dean is ready, Sam can tell me.’</p><p>‘I see. Well, that explains it. He really was quite wonderful through it all, so strong and so brilliant. He fought beside me – took my place in heaven for the trial, in fact. We swapped bodies, you see. His soul in my body and vice versa, so when they punished us with Holy Water and Hellfire, it didn’t affect us. He was terribly brave.’</p><p>‘I didn’t know swapping bodies was possible,’ Castiel says.</p><p>‘Well, neither did I –  but there was a prophecy, and an idea, and we thought about it and then all of a sudden it happened. Crowley is very clever like that. I think about things and then he puts them in action. I was so sure we were lost but he – well he…’</p><p>Aziraphale doesn’t have to say more. Castiel knows. He knows the power of ‘he’ – the one who doesn’t give up, who insists on fighting, on finding a way – <em>c’mon, Cas, there has to be some trick we can pull!</em></p><p>‘A prophecy?’</p><p>‘Agnes Nutter. 17<sup>th</sup> century Lincolnshire witch. Look her up in your world, she might have something useful to say. Perhaps the Men of Letters had a copy of her prophecies? If they do, I’d be very grateful for a sight of it.’</p><p>‘Agnes Nutter.’ Castiel takes a notebook out of his pocket and carefully notes the name down. He doesn’t need to do this, he’ll remember it, but it’s a human habit he’s picked up.</p><p>‘Did Crowley have a trial too?’</p><p>‘Yes, but I was in his body and oh – they would have burned him with Holy Water, Castiel, it – I felt – it made me sick to see it. Holy Water, from Heaven? Imagine? Hell actually did a deal with Heaven to destroy him, and he’s better than – well, he’s better than Michael! And Gabriel too!’ Aziraphale stops, flushed that he’s actually said that.</p><p>Castiel knows exactly how Aziraphale feels about Holy Water near Crowley. He, after all, supplied the Holy Water that Aziraphale carefully poured into the tartan flask ‘<em>so he’ll see it and think of me, you see? Perhaps it’ll make him hesitate…’. </em>Castiel had offered when Aziraphale had sat opposite him in a empty diner in New York, his hands twisting round and round each other and because Castiel, forty years ahead of him in his own personal timeline, knows what it’s like to hand the one you love the weapon that could kill them, in the hopes it’ll save them, he’d offered to bring Aziraphale the Holy Water himself <em>we’ve got so much of it lying around, the Winchesters splash it everywhere </em>and together they had worked it out the best way to give Crowley what he wanted and keep him safe.</p><p>They’ve discussed Crowley before – both of them, Castiel’s and Aziraphale’s. The Crowley in Castiel’s world is quite different from the Crowley in Aziraphale’s – but then again, there are similarities. Perhaps, Castiel ponders, Crowley in his world is what Aziraphale’s Crowley might have been if he had never met Aziraphale.</p><p>There is no Aziraphale in Castiel’s world and no Castiel in his. Perhaps that why they can meet. Or perhaps it’s better this way. One of each kind, in each world, right with the people who need them most.</p><p>‘He invited me to stay at his place. He said we’re on our own side now,’ Aziraphale blurted out. Castiel nodded. He likes that phrase – their own side. Perhaps he’ll say that to Dean, and Sam too. And their side could include Eileen, and Rowena, and Garth, and Charlie and Jody – their own odd family. Not bound by blood, but by spirits. Stronger, perhaps, than blood. A chosen family. He’s been trying to get that idea over to Aziraphale for some time now, but Aziraphale was so tied to Heaven. Castiel recognises the need. He won’t condemn him for a choice he found so difficult himself – a choice he might not have made if Dean Winchester hadn’t been there, waiting for him.</p><p>‘We held hands on the bus home. I mean, he held out his hand and I took it.’ Aziraphale admitted, and he even blushed. ‘Listen to me, I sound like a Victorian maiden. Just hand holding.’</p><p>‘I understand,’ Castiel said. ‘Dean and I hug, often. It is a pleasant feeling. I like it. It feels like my own human connection. I am home when he hugs me. But holding hands – it is different. It has a romantic connotation that cannot be interpreted any other way.’</p><p>‘Yes,’ Aziraphale said, excitedly, understanding that Castiel knows, like no-one else could. ‘Yes. Do you know, I think we may be closer than ever now.’ He doesn’t have to say what to. The conversation always comes round to this, for both of them. The same thoughts cycling round and round between them, the only other person who can understand. <em>Can I tell him? Should I tell him? What if he walks away? What if I’ve misinterpreted it all this time? What if I’m wrong? What if he says yes and that gets him hurt? They would kill him to punish me. They already use him to get to me. I can’t – I can’t – but I want to. Oh, how I long – how I treasure every little gesture and glance and word – but I daren’t do more. Not yet. Not yet.</em></p><p>‘The end of the world can do that,’ Castiel say, crumpling up his napkin. He’ll have to go soon. There’s a familiar tingling at the back of his mind, a siren call he gives into willingly. A profound bond to fulfil.</p><p>‘I may tell him,’ Aziraphale says, gulping a little. ‘I think I will tell him, soon.’</p><p>He doesn’t have to say what. Castiel knows. Aziraphale will tell Crowley he loves him, and Castiel is sure Crowley will say it back. He can see the love in Crowley’s eyes through Aziraphale’s words. But Aziraphale wasn’t ready yet. He may be now.</p><p>‘And what about you? Will you ever say it?’ His eyes are so blue and so kind.</p><p>‘It’s different for me.’</p><p>There are cultural complications with Dean. There are for Crowley, he supposes, a demon loving an angel but for Dean, a man bought up in a certain way, by a man who barely loved, let alone understood love was not just one form, falling in love with a man – a man shaped being – would be a big step, and perhaps not one he can make yet. There are feelings Dean has that he hasn’t explored yet, feelings he may not even have discovered yet. Castiel has once or twice contemplated changing his appearance to female to see if Dean would prefer that, but he likes this face and form. He has chosen it now, and he feels it reflects the real him, and he would prefer Dean learned to love that, and not just a face that suits him.</p><p>Besides, Dean called him devastatingly handsome once – one of the memories he cherishes, so he knows Dean likes it too. Dean knows his face, and knows each expression that crosses it, and knows his arms when he hugs, and his shoulder when he pats it and knows exactly, always where Castiel is standing – and that would all change in a different body. Castiel will stay like this, and wait for Dean. Forever, if he has to.</p><p>‘Don’t wait too long, will you?’ Aziraphale says. ‘I waited and then I realised I may not have had time to say it. And your life is so dangerous – you keep dying, Castiel, and one day you won’t come back.’</p><p>‘I’ll always find my way back to him,’ Castiel said, standing up. ‘And I swear to you, if ever there comes a time when I know the end is here, I will tell him.’</p><p>‘I’d rather hope you’d tell him before that, dear boy,’ Aziraphale says. ‘But who I am to judge – six thousand years of waiting.’</p><p>Aziraphale stands too.</p><p>‘Thank you for the conversation. It’s nice to talk to someone who understands.’</p><p>‘And you. It is – nice.’</p><p>They stop for a second at the door. Castiel has talked Aziraphale through disasters. Aziraphale has helped Castiel understand the more complicated points of humanity. Together they talk about their love, a conversation they can hold with no-one else, sometimes not even themselves. If they ever met in real life, Castiel would be frustrated by Aziraphale’s prissiness and insistence on order, and Aziraphale would deplore Castiel’s taste in – well, everything. But here, outside time and space and reality, two angels who love humanity too much, and one person too well, can talk.</p><p>‘Until next time. And – good luck,’ Castiel says.</p><p>‘Until next time. Keep safe, my friend,’ Aziraphale says. Castiel walks off into the blizzard, coat flapping dramatically. Aziraphale has to admit it’s a good exit, as he snaps his fingers and finds himself home in the bookshop.</p><p>‘Where were you all day?’ Crowley grumbles, although his voice has a sharp edge – the burn of worry. He’s lying on the sofa and judging by the empty bottles of Malbec all around him has been some time.</p><p>‘I had to visit a friend,’ Aziraphale says. ‘Now will you please sober up, my dear? I have something to tell you and I want to be quite sure you understand.’</p><p> </p>
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